


Reckless

by rasyya



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Deaf Clint Barton, Drabble, M/M, Porn with Feelings, character study kinda, hawksilver - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 05:54:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4251900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rasyya/pseuds/rasyya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It feels good to sign at Pietro; to get it all out in the open—unanswered hand-woven words hanging between them—enough to quell that growing ache in Clint’s chest, calm the itch of.<br/>Want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reckless

**Author's Note:**

> look, ma. i wrote another hawksilver fic.

_Dicksilver._

Clint signs, making Nat laugh.

“What?” Pietro asks, clearly annoyed at being left out of the loop, tickling red-hot haze of being the brunt of their conversation.

_What, you disagree?_

Nat snorts and pushes back from the kitchen table,

“He says your hair looks sexy pushed back like that,” Romanoff tells the kid, picking up her bowl and putting it in the sink with a clatter.

“Really?” Pietro takes a crunching bite of his apple, mouth chewing smug and self-sure.

“No. Not really,” Natasha says, heading out the door, barest hint of a grin tugging at her lips.

 _Dumbass._ Clint signs into his cereal.

_

It feels good to sign at Pietro; partly because being able to get all his pent-up irritation out there in snide, dirty, insulting comments feels _damn good_ , but mostly for the way it riles the kid up. Gets him moving fast and reckless, brow furrowed, nonchalance pulled on like a poorly-fitted jumper; the frustration at not being able to understand a palpable buzz around him.

_Jesus Christ kid, learn to take a punch._

Pietro glares up at him, blood spurting out of his nose, wiping it in a crimson smear across his pale face. Nat spins on her heel, and grins up at where Clint sits in the rafters, feet swinging idly.

 _Nice one,_ he signs at her, grinning.

“You’re up,” she replies, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

Clint’s grin turns wide and gleeful as he smoothly swings down onto the sparring mats, and wipes the floor with the kid.

_

 _He’s an idiot!_ Clint’s hands cut angrily through the air.

“Calm down, Barton. Have a seat.” Fury steeples his fingers underneath his chin.

_He never listens, self-serving brat, never takes the team into account—_

Fury quells him with a look.

“And he is in the room, Barton. Sort it out between yourselves. You’re flight leaves at 2300 hours.”

Clint sighs put-upon and over-loud. Secretly relishing the pouty way Pietro ignores him.

They sit there in silence.

Pietro huffs, impatience branding his every movement,

“Why you never talk to me, Barton?”

_I do talk to you, you little shit._

Pietro growls and unfolds, “No, _out loud,_ bird for brains,”

Clint smiles toothily, _This is more fun._

Pietro glares at the table until they kick off. 

Admittedly they work really fucking well together—like a dream—Pietro’s efficient resilience balancing Clint’s steady persistence; grounding each other, anchoring them both. Clint thrives off it—gets high off it, feels his blood sing, heady and fervent and loose with it, which is the only excuse he has for the way

 _I love how fucking fast you are,_ recklessly spills from his fingertips. He stains red, skin tight and heated with embarrassment.

“Up yours, old man.” Pietro flings back at him, good mood ringing in the words, big mouth splayed in a goofy, fight-high grin.

Clint breathes easy, remembers. Seen and not heard.

 _Brat._ He signs into Pietro’s face, and strangles the strange clenching feeling spasming in his lungs.

_

They’re partnered up a lot—Fury recognizing the need in both of them to give and take; Pietro’s grudgingly thin-covered respect for Barton, the way he listens to the older man, eager to please. Clint barely notices the change, just nods when Pietro goes along with his off-the-cuff “plans”, apologizes with his hands for the way they often derail and end up in a mess that needs fixing. Pietro is quieter around Barton, silently and quickly working things right. Snarky, but—quieter. 

It feels good to sign at Pietro; to get it all out in the open—unanswered hand-woven words hanging between them—enough to quell that growing ache in Clint’s chest, calm the itch of.

Clint sits in his apartment, lights off, bottles of beer strewn around him, dog on his lap. His fingers dance patterns through fur and he leans back and closes his eyes and lets the throb of want rush over him.

Jaw clenching he unpacks it, lets it unfurl inside of him, tide-pulls crashing and then. He neatly folds it over and in on itself and pushes it into the darkest part of his mind.

But it gets out.

At first it’s in the drunken adrenaline rush of ‘oh god, oh god, we did it, they’re alive, we’re alive, threat’s been neutralized, holy shit.’ And Clint signs brazenly honest praise, _Good boy. Such goddamn gorgeous speed._

And Pietro laughs at him,

“I don’t understand you bird, but okay.” And Clint just.

Can’t help it.

The want hits him like a carefully aimed arrow. _Fuck._

_

It’s therapeutic at first—easing the pain of wanting, of needing—confessing in a flurry of motion, the hurt of it, the truth of it, the filthy things he wants to do to the kid, the way his head clears whenever the kid rushes past him, broad arms kissing his for an nth of a second. He puts it all out there, lets it pour out of him, waiting in lingering silence between them.

And Clint recognizes that maybe it’s all getting to be too much when he starts having lengthy one sided conversations with the speedster, starts missing something that’s not there. The waiting fast becoming overwhelming. 

Clint constantly feels like a fuck-up—like a worthless well-trained weapon—hyper aware of his humanity, his vulnerability, his failures. He’s so aware of his limits and it eats away at him, chews him up. He tells all this to Pietro one night—in between flickering scenes of some action flick. Sculpted thighs press lightly against his, vibrating slightly, heat seeping through Maximoff’s joggers. Clint tells him everything; how fucking scared he is of jeopardizing the team, no— their _family._ How he knows he doesn’t deserve to be a part of the Avengers. How sometimes he wishes he could fall into some fucking radioactive goo and actually **_be_** a help for once.

“Stop making fun of me Barton and watch film.”

Clint swallows against a scratchy, dry throat and fights the urge to get to higher ground.

“What?” Pietro smiles at him, a soft secret thing between them, lounging in the peace of a night off, “you don’t like my film choice?”

Clint shifts, barely blinks, and Pietro’s in his space, all broad shoulders and sleek lines, clear eyes meeting his, silver hair falling, high cheekbones.

“Shit,” the boy breathes, “you okay little bird?”

“Yeah man, I’m good.” Clint shoves him away, palms burning at the feel of all that energy encased in a soft worn t-shirt. Clint clenches his fingers into a fist to keep the words in, knuckles white.

Pietro turns back to the television, body tight against his like a kiss.

_

Clint keeps signing at the kid, slinging loose confessions and desires like stray arrows. Pietro’s flying fast and glorious, movements calculated and efficient, bright and brilliant; concentrated. Every job they work Maximoff seems to be pushing himself harder, teeth bared, silver crackling in his wake. They save each other’s asses, Pietro brutal and merciless. And Cilnt signs how much he needs him when Pietro stands panting, sweet covered, blood oozing from his knuckles and sliding down his chin.

Pietro watches him, and Clint aches.

_

Pietro’s being a little shit—won’t shut up.

Dusk smudges purple across the sky outside Clint’s apartment window, and he just really wants to be alone right now. But he can’t because Pietro’s at his place, complaining about something, and _god._ Dude won’t fucking shut up.

Clint watches him, restless energy making the kid dart and bounce everywhere, almost as if he’s nervous.

Lazily, he sets down the pot of coffee he’d been sipping, and glaring at the kid signs,

_God, I want to shut you up with my cock._

_Why don’t you make me, old man?_

Clint’s eyes widen. **Aw, fuck.**

_You learned ASL?_

_Nat taught me. I asked, and we started with all the curses. Piece of pie._ Pietro’s hands are fast—a little clumsy and stuttering, but fast and _goddamn_ but Clint can’t stop staring.

“It’s cake,” he says out loud because his hands won’t let him say anything else.

Shit. Shit. Fucking **shit.**

How much had the kid seen and understood? How much did he know? Clint tries not to spiral into the rabbit hole of blinding panic.

 _At first I wanted to know what you were always saying to me—I knew it was insulting, probably ‘Pietro you’re so stupid, you irritating, immature child’ so then I didn’t want to learn._ Pietro rubs the back of his neck wryly, _I didn’t think I wanted to know what you really think of me. That you hate my fucking guts._

“I—” Clint’s voice is scratchy and worn, Pietro cuts him off with gracefully quick, swooping hands,

 _But I had to know, you always sign at me, all the fucking time, even when I’m not even doing anything stupid, so. I just wanted to know. I just wanted…even though I was nervous to find out what you think of me, and then—”_ Clint shuts his eyes, cutting him off, not wanting to see it—to hear it—so he’s surprised by dry, chapped lips pressing against his. Parting them with a flick of his tongue.

His eyes open in shock, and then he’s being pressed into the fridge, head carefully cradled in large, sure hands.

 **Nah,** Clint thinks, and flips them—pushing Pietro into the fridge, angling their mouths into a slick, dirty slide.

Pietro whines in the back of his throat like a needy, unmade thing and Clint fucking takes. 

“Bed, now.” Clint’s voice is harshness, low and rough and simmering with promise

Clint feels the emptiness in front of him like a cool caress, and takes his sweet damn time getting to the bedroom. 

The air huffs out of him like a punch, and he feels it in his stomach; Pietro spread out on the softness, chiseled chest heaving, eyes dark with pleading.

He makes a move to touch his cock, hesitant, questioning lining his forearm;

 _No,_ Clint shakes his head; the kid breathes harder, panting with it.

Barton feels the burn of warm pride as the kid obeys; pleasure tingling up his spine as he slowly strips.

The kid whimpers, fucking whimpers, when Clint leans over him on the bed, bracing his hands on either side of Pietro’s head.

“You want this?” Clint asks, unable to stop a hand smoothing down Pietro’s flank, calming him.

“Yes.” The younger man says, high and breathy, soft and true, “You say ‘good boy’ to me all the time, bird. With your hands—I _see_ it, and I just. I want—I want you to say it and mean it like this.”

Clint nearly puts a hand on his cock for that, for that gorgeous truth spilling lovely from white-bitten lips.

“Listen carefully,” he says, voice low, “touch yourself without my permission, and this ends.” Pietro growls, and clenches his teeth, neck straining as his cock jumps at Clint’s words. 

Clint starts at the top. Sucking behind a scruff covered curved jaw, biting and soothing. Pietro’s body hums underneath him, and violently jerks, shaking when Clint takes a peaked nipple into his mouth and licks and licks, wet tongue flicking hot.

Pietro groans, hands trembling across the sheet blurred-fast, seeking something to hold on to. 

Barton lifts his head, trailing lower, watching Pietro’s eyes widen with realization.

“Better hold on, kid,” he warns, and then gets his mouth on that huge, hard cock.

The kid let’s out these delicious, tiny, relentless noises as Clint sucks: lips spit-shiny and stretched. Barton wraps his hands around Peitro’s hips, pushing him down, controlling the helpless shifting, shoving, grinding.

“Flip,” Clint barely gets out, silver sparking, and then Pietro’s ass is just. There. 

Clint takes his time opening the kid up. Licking and sucking, adding fingers, harshly whispering fevered praise. Pietro’s moaning, nearly a continuous unbroken whine, but laying so perfect, so still for Clint; a constant vibration making the edges of him soft and hazy. 

Clint wraps his cock in latex and smothers it in slippery lube and slides in slowly, carefully, relishing the way the kid’s knuckles are bloodless-pale in their grip on his sheets, the way his mouth is open in a wide wordless gape—pretty. 

He sets a brutally slow pace—making the kid wait; testing his hard-learned patience. Closing his eyes and baring his teeth against the need to just fuck fast and ferocious.

“God,” he hears among broken Sokovian, “please, please, please,” and Clint let’s his pace quicken a little as he feels something inside him break loose.

“You’re so fucking smart, kid.” Pietro’s back is arched, his ass held up in Clint’s bruising hold, and he cries out harshly, “So bright, _god,_ when I see you out there, out-maneuvering and adapting, I get hard—you feel it, boy? You fucking do me in.”

Clint can’t keep it in, unused to confessing with his mouth and not his hands, fucking Pietro hard and sure and true,

“God, your speed—” he adjusts his grip, spreading the kid’s ass to watch the way his dick pumps in and out, feeling his climax building in the heat of his face, in the way his throat feels tight and aching, in the straining and feel-good burning of his thighs; he leans down, shitty thread-count sliding against his knuckles as he slides his hand underneath Pietro to get a punishing grip on that beautiful cock, and snarls feral and possessive,

“Such a **good boy**.”

And Pietro comes underneath the archer like he was made for it, body going rigid, and then spasming, quick and thrumming around Clint’s dick, sending him hurtling, unprepared, over the edge into blissful release.

_

Dawn creeps gentle across sky outside Clint’s bedroom window as Pietro leans over him, and watching as quick-lovely fingers needily and readily sign,

_I found out you want me just as much as I want you, old man._

 

**Author's Note:**

> meet me in the in-between http://rasyya.tumblr.com/


End file.
